Who had laughed, on a bright afternoon, about my body going down into the dark.

And I found that I had nothing in me for him — no scream, no curse, not even the pain he was fishing for.

I would not hand him my pain.

It was mine.

He’d taken enough.

I reached into my coat and took out the key card to my father’s yacht — the very boat where he’d counted me out in a stairwell — and I let it fall to the floor at his shackled feet.

“You wanted something from my family, Flynn,” I said, quiet enough that the room went still to hear it.